1Heard through lids slammed down over darkened glass, Trees shift in their tattered sheets, tossing in Shallow sleep underneath the snoring wind.A dream of forests far inside such sleepAs wakeful birds perched high in a dread wood,Brooding over torn leaves, might mutter ofRises over the pain of a snapped twigThat ebbs and throbs not with a shore rhythmBut with the pulsings of dark groves —as ifA bird of hurting swept over hooded Places, fled, and at intervals returned— Clocked by the broken aspirates roaringAlong their own wind> heard within their wood, Their own deep wood, where, fluttering, first words Emerge, wrapped in slowly unfolding leaves.10Beyond the cold, blue mountain and beyond That, we shall wander on the pale hills when Shadows give over bending along theSlopes, and the silent midday light, unchanged For hours and days, is pierced only by our Two moving specks, only by the cricket'sWarm humming. Then, what we hear becoming What we see, the gray; the wind enclosing; The poplars' breath; the sad, waiting chambers.Will there have been room? There will have been room To come upon the end of summer where Clustered, blue grapes hang in a shattered bell,Or there, in a far, distant field, a swarm Of bees in a helmet, metal yielding Honey, balmy drops glistening on bronze.